To ruin an Omega

FIA

The road to Nocturne stretched longer than the map suggested it would. Trees gave way to rolling hills that looked painted onto the landscape, too perfect to be real. The further north we drove, the more the architecture changed. Silvercreek had favored function over form—squat buildings built to withstand harsh winters, practical and unremarkable. Skollrend leaned into old-world grandeur and wealth with its stone keeps and defensive walls.

Nocturne was something else entirely.

The pack territory announced itself through wrought iron gates that curved into elaborate patterns depicting wolves running beneath a crescent moon. Beyond them, cobblestone streets wound between buildings that belonged in a European fairy tale. Steep-pitched roofs covered in dark slate, pale stone walls that caught the afternoon light, window boxes overflowing with late-season flowers. Everything looked meticulously maintained, like someone had frozen a moment in time and refused to let it age.

“It’s beautiful,” I said.

Cian’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. “It’s showy.”

“Well.. I thought the same with Skollrend once. Can’t it be both?”

He made a noncommittal sound. His jaw had been tight since we crossed the border, tension radiating from him in waves I could almost see. This wasn’t his territory. These weren’t his people. And I was about to walk into a room full of strangers who would judge my every move and every expression that crossed my face.

The church sat at the heart of the territory, its spire visible from half a mile away. White stone gleamed against the gray sky, and stained glass windows caught what little sunlight managed to break through the clouds. Cian pulled into a lot already half-full of expensive cars.

I took a breath and let it out slowly.

“You don’t have to do this,” he said.

“I know.”

“We can turn around right now. Drive back to Skollrend. Tell them you got sick or the car broke down or—”

“Cian.” I reached over and laced my fingers through his. “I need to do this.”

He studied my face like he was looking for cracks in my resolve. Whatever he found there must have satisfied him because he nodded and cut the engine.

The church doors stood open. People filtered in wearing black, their voices a low murmur that didn’t quite qualify as conversation. I recognized the dynamic immediately. This was performance, the careful dance of appearing appropriately somber while cataloging who attended and who didn’t, who cried and who maintained composure.

Cian’s hand found the small of my back as we crossed the threshold.

The whispers started immediately.

I didn’t catch specific words; I just noticed the quality of them. A lot of them were sharp. Some were pointed. Others were just plain curious. Eyes tracked our movement down the center aisle. Some gazes held pity. Others carried judgment. A few looked openly hostile.

Cian’s fingers pressed more firmly against my spine. The gesture said I’m here without requiring words.

The interior matched the exterior’s grandeur. Vaulted ceilings soared overhead, painted with scenes I couldn’t quite make out from ground level. More stained glass filtered colored light across the wooden pews, which had been polished until they gleamed. The air smelled like incense and old stone and something floral I couldn’t identify.

Three caskets dominated the space at the front.

Two were full-sized, their lids closed and draped with white silk. The third sat smaller. Noticeably, deliberately smaller and sealed tight because what remained of Hazel Hughes wouldn’t fit in a standard coffin.

My stomach turned over.

I’d known. Father had told me they’d sent her back in pieces. But seeing the physical evidence, the too-small box that held what was left of my half-sister, made it real in a way words hadn’t managed.

The whispers intensified. I caught fragments now.

“—heard she was cut into—”

“—Lily of the Valley doesn’t mess around—”

“—If you ask me… she deserved it. You needed to see the things she did to her own sister—”

Cian guided me to a pew near the middle. Not close enough to the front to draw more attention than necessary, not far enough back to suggest we didn’t belong. We sat. His thigh pressed against mine, solid and grounding.

An elder in ceremonial robes stepped forward. She was ancient, her face mapped with wrinkles that spoke of decades spent in service to pack and goddess. When she opened her mouth, her voice carried despite its softness.

She sang.

The language was old, something that predated modern pack structure. I didn’t understand most of the words because of how old they were but I felt their weight. A prayer for safe passage. A blessing for souls departing this world for whatever came next.

When the song ended, she produced a small bowl filled with white ash. She moved to each casket in turn, marking them with symbols that was supposed to guide them well to the afterlife… Whichever one they deserved. The ash stood stark against the dark wood and white silk.

Then she stepped back.

A man rose from the front pew. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with silver threading through dark hair and a face that commanded attention without trying. Authority sat on him like a second skin.

Alpha Dimitri. My supposed grandfather.

He moved to the podium with measured steps. His gaze swept the assembled mourners, lingering here and there on faces he knew. When his eyes found mine, something flickered across his expression. Recognition, maybe, or perhaps grief for the daughter he’d lost and the granddaughter he’d never truly know.

“We gather today to honor three women,” he began. His voice filled the space without needing amplification. “Pauline, my wife. Isobel, my beautiful daughter. And Hazel, one of my granddaughters.”

He paused. Let the words settle.

“Pauline served this pack for decades. She held positions of trust and used them to maintain order. What she did in the shadows, the secrets she kept, those things have come to light now. We cannot change the past. We can only acknowledge it and try to do better moving forward.”